


Deceit

by lightimagay



Category: Code Geass
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Heavy Angst, Non-Explicit Sex, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightimagay/pseuds/lightimagay
Summary: C.C. tries not to think about the truth.
Relationships: Background Marianne vi Britannia/Charles zi Britannia, Marianne vi Britannia/C.C.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Deceit

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Rex for beta-ing this! :)

The first time C.C. has sex with Marianne is in the Ganymede. It’s cramped and muggy, but C.C. can tell Marianne likes it because she thinks she’s being rebellious. Not many noblewomen can say they’ve defiled a cockpit.

Marianne’s breath hitches, her knee hitting the joystick as C.C. presses her mouth at the junction of her neck and shoulder. Her cheeks are red, and she is wearing a yellow ribbon in her hair that C.C. wants to rip out, letting her hair flow and cascade. But C.C. doesn’t. Her hands are already occupied, and she isn’t going to ask.

“Oh, C.C.,” Marianne gasps, her body shuddering, her hands carelessly smacking the instrument panels she usually handles so expertly.

A few seconds later, C.C.’s head bumps against one of the display monitors, and Marianne giggles and kisses her.

* * *

The second time C.C. has sex with Marianne, silken sheets and a king-sized bed are involved. They are in Marianne’s quarters, a guard keeping watch outside the door, and Marianne moans so loudly that C.C. thinks it’s a wonder that the whole palace didn’t hear.

When they are finished, Marianne runs her hands through the sheets and sighs happily, eyes closed. “You can’t deny there are perks to this arrangement, can you, C.C.?”

Marianne is still learning to revel in luxury. It’s cute, in a way. She tries to hide her bewilderment over the fact that people wait on her now. That’s a part of her charm. Oftentimes she’ll lose her sense of decorum and begin chatting with a maid or start teasing a guard or make her knightmare do victory pirouettes during an official military exercise. Many of Charles’ other consorts view her with ire because of this, but there are just as many that are drawn to her. C.C. wonders if Marianne knows what a polarizing figure she is.

“You’re arrogant,” C.C. says, propping her head up with her elbow. “You act like this is the first time I’ve bedded royalty.”

Almost instantaneously, Marianne’s eyes snap open, wide and curious. “Ooh, I want details.” She grabs C.C.’s arm like an eager child. “Who was your first?”

Like most people, Marianne sees C.C. as a trove of knowledge, full of exciting and fantastical stories, but she’s different in some respects. Whenever C.C. tells anyone a part that isn’t happy, a part where her life is lonely or difficult, the person’s face transforms. Smile fades. Eyes lower. Inquisitiveness transforms into pity.

Marianne never does that, so C.C. indulges her sometimes. Tells her bits and pieces but never full pictures until Marianne begs and pleads, desperate for an ending or some sort of resolution that C.C. never gives.

“The first king I slept with was dull,” C.C. says. “He didn’t listen to my advice, so he was killed as a result.” 

“Serves him right,” Marianne says, smile wide, and C.C. knows she’s playing out scenarios in her mind in which the king could have died. For a girl of only eighteen, she is extremely bloody-minded. “Were there any queens?”

“One,” C.C. says. One of Marianne’s hands clenches the silken sheets. C.C. stares at it. “She was nothing like you.” 

“What happened?” Marianne asks.

“We ended up being found out. I was beheaded for perversion and treason.”

“You got back at them, didn’t you?” And that’s the difference between Marianne and the others. Marianne doesn’t look sorrowful. Instead, she looks angry, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. To Marianne, C.C.’s life isn’t one full of sadness; it’s one rife with injustice.

C.C. shakes her head, and Marianne begins to rant about how _she_ would have enacted vengeance. She’s completely naked, her breasts jiggling as her arms move animatedly. She explains to C.C. that _she_ would have found a way to lay siege upon the kingdom. _She_ would have crucified the king. 

Marianne’s hair is in disarray, her face still flushed from her orgasm, and C.C. can’t help but smile.

* * *

V.V. is transparent. He thinks he isn’t, but he can be as readable as any boy when the occasion arises.

The occasion usually involves Marianne and Charles, whether they be smiling or laughing together or talking in hushed voices or standing near one another or pretty much whenever they aren’t on opposite sides of the palace.

Tonight, the occasion occurs during one of their clandestine meetings. The guards have been ordered away, so it’s just the four of them eating dinner. V.V. and C.C. sit on one side of the table and Charles and Marianne on the other. They’ve already finished their talk of Britannian expansion and thought elevators, so now Marianne, who is somewhat inebriated, keeps giggling and reminiscing with Charles about conquests she has carried out with her Ganymede. V.V. doesn’t even bother to hide the fact that he’s incensed. He acts like he’s at war with his dinner.

“You shouldn’t frown like that,” C.C. leans over and whispers to V.V. “Your face might stick that way.”

“Don’t treat me like a child, C.C.,” V.V. says, voice nasally and petulant. He stabs a spear of asparagus. “You know I’m not.”

“You’re right,” C.C. says. “You’re not a child. You’re an infant compared to me.”

Charles and Marianne don’t seem to hear them during this exchange. They’re too wrapped up in each other. Charles keeps chuckling at whatever Marianne is saying. Sometimes C.C. has to wonder what Marianne and V.V. see in him. At the end of the day, he’s just a man who wants things. Grand things. Grand wishes. C.C. has seen it all before. Charles acts like his dream is a novelty that lesser men cannot even begin to comprehend. People are drawn to that sort of thing. It enthralls them, possesses them until they’re ravenous, starved for their desires to come to fruition. 

C.C. also creates this hunger. She realizes this, but she also realizes the futility in it. V.V. has the same power, the same perpetual youth, but he’s not the same as her. 

He has not yet realized that immortality makes you despicable.

Marianne, who is now very drunk, leans toward Charles and opens her mouth and then snaps it shut like she’s pretending to bite off his nose. Charles chuckles. V.V. continues to simmer. After a short while, C.C. becomes bored and leaves them.

* * *

C.C. is not supposed to be out often. She is supposed to be a dirty little secret, hidden away from the rest of Charles’ consorts and the conniving nobles who wish to unseat him. However, for as long as she can remember, C.C. has considered rules to be merely guidelines that can be broken on a whim.

Because of this, she frequents the palace gardens. They’re usually barren save for the occasional gardener. Occasionally, she spots young princesses and noble girls plucking flowers to make crowns or to give to their mothers.

This time, however, she spots a young boy with light blond hair and pale skin. He’s tall for his age, limbs long and gangly, and his face is overly sharp, like parts that are supposed to be there have been sliced off with a knife. Still, there’s something about him that makes him seem too young to be a teenager. C.C. places him at around ten.

Currently, he’s sitting cross-legged on a patch of grass with a glass chess set in front of him. When she approaches him, she sees that his brow is furrowed as he carefully moves each piece. It’s as if he’s actually playing against an opponent.

“Do you often play chess by yourself?”

The boy starts, eyes going wide. He tightens his grip on the bishop he’s holding. “Who are you?” he asks.

Too young for politeness. In a way, it’s refreshing. “I’m a friend of Lady Marianne’s,” she says, crouching next to him. “What’s your name?”

“Schneizel,” the boy answers, and then he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else. However, he quickly shuts it like he thinks better of it, peering down at his chess set, biting his lip.

“What is it?” C.C. asks.

The boy hesitates before saying, “My mother doesn’t like Lady Marianne.”

“What about you? Do you like Lady Marianne?”

The boy looks up again, surprised, as if he would never expect such a question in a million years. He stares at C.C. warily as if she is an enigma. C.C. doesn’t blame him. She could be simpler, but she’s choosing to be one.

“I…” The boy trails off before trying again. “Yes, I like her. I think she’s…strong.”

The boy cringes as if he’s said something foolish, and C.C. smiles. She bids him farewell and leaves him to his solitary game of chess.

A few days later, she sees the boy again in the gardens. “Hello,” she says.

He stares at her blankly. “Who are you?” he asks.

* * *

It happens again with a young princess named Cornelia, and that is when Charles actually decides to confront her. He shouts at C.C. while she twirls her hair and stares at the stained glass windows in her quarters. A woman is bowing her head, hands folded together. An angel in the corner plays a harp.

Finally, Charles stops blathering, and C.C. turns to look at him. His cheeks are red and puffed out. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his jaw is clenched. He looks like an animal, not an emperor.

“Tell me this,” C.C. says, cocking her head to the side. “When was the last time Marianne came to your bedroom of her own volition?”

The blind fury on Charles’ face is truly something to behold. If C.C. was mortal, she might have worried about getting strangled to death, but she isn’t so she doesn’t. In any case, she has Marianne’s favoritism on her side. Charles won’t lay a finger on C.C. because he’s wrapped around Marianne’s little finger.

Charles, predictably, storms away, hands clenched into fists, and C.C. goes back to staring at the stained glass windows.

It is funny that for a man who wants to create a world with no lies, Charles does not always like hearing the truth.

* * *

“I can’t believe you did that to me.” Marianne flops down on her bed and sighs ostentatiously. It’s times like these where she seems her youngest, spread-eagled, cheeks puffed out, and hair in disarray.

“What?” C.C. asks, even though she knows. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed while reading an antiquated book on etiquette. The page she is on is emphasizing that one should “banish the blues” because a “cheerful sanguine spirit begets cheer and hope.”

Marianne sits up and fixes C.C. with a look of exasperation. “You _know_ my dear husband has far too much on his plate to be spending his time tampering with his children’s memories.” She kicks out her legs. “I had to listen to a lecture about keeping _you_ in line. It was like listening to my father.”

C.C. closes her book and stands up. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

“You’re one to talk,” Marianne says, and she smiles a slow, lazy smile that C.C. has come to know like the back of her hand. “You’re a dinosaur. You’re _prehistoric_.”

“But I don’t look it.”

Marianne licks her lips and reaches for C.C.’s wrist. “No,” she says. “No, you don’t.”

* * *

C.C. is beginning to find that her post-coital moments with Marianne are like Russian roulette. Usually, Marianne is harmless and sated afterward, cuddling up to C.C.’s side like a cat, languidly speaking about some random topic, or sometimes she falls asleep immediately.

Tonight is not one of those times. Tonight, Marianne has decided to interrogate C.C. about her wish.

“But why?” Marianne asks, her lips twisted into a pout. It’s the same expression she wears when she wants C.C.’s mouth or fingers on her for the fourth or fifth or sixth time. “Even after thousands of years, it’s impossible to explore the entire world. There’s knowledge everywhere.”

C.C. gazes down at the bed sheets. Explaining would take too long, and it would probably be fruitless, so she says, “I’m tired.”

“I don’t understand you,” Marianne murmurs.

C.C. turns to look at her then. Marianne’s face is serious now, her mouth drawn into a line. C.C. reaches for her.

“I understand you,” C.C. whispers, combing her fingers through Marianne’s hair, letting her hand fall to her cheek. “You’re easy to understand.”

Marianne says nothing. She just closes her eyes and leans into C.C.’s palm.

* * *

C.C.’s eyes are closed, but she is awake. Many nights are like this. She will pull her blankets up to her chest and remember too many things until she exhausts herself, and then it is morning again. 

Tonight, she hears her door creaking open. In the darkness, she peers through her lashes and sees a silhouette creeping toward her. C.C. smirks and waits until she hears breathing right next to her, and then she quickly grabs the person by the arm, flinging her onto the bed beside her.

“You’re incorrigible,” C.C. says, trying to hide the fact that she’s nearly out of breath. She straddles Marianne’s waist, attempting to make out her face in the dark.

“ _I'm_ incorrigible?” Marianne says. “ _You’re_ the one dragging me into your bed.”

C.C. rolls her eyes and runs her hands over Marianne’s body. She pauses and frowns when she realizes what she’s wearing. “What are you up to?”

“We’re going horseback riding,” Marianne says, rolling out from under C.C. and standing up. “Get dressed.”

“Horseback riding? At this time?”

Marianne flicks the light switch on, and, just as C.C. suspected, she is wearing her equestrian clothes complete with the tight breeches and high boots. Her hair is tied back with her signature yellow ribbon, and she has a gloved hand resting on her hip. C.C. licks her lips, remembering the times she has watched Marianne peel off those gloves before pinning her down. 

“C.C.,” Marianne says sharply, breaking C.C. out of her trance, “you’ve told me of some of the mischief you’ve gotten into. Surely, going horseback riding past midnight pales in comparison.” She smiles. “ _Or_ is the issue that you fear being chastised by my husband if we’re found out?”

“Don’t insult me,” C.C. says. She’s already out of bed and walking to her closet. She can practically feel Marianne’s eyes boring into her as she begins to get changed. “I’m worried more for your sake than mine. I doubt you want a scandal.”

Marianne doesn’t bother to reply to that. She just starts tapping her foot in excitement until C.C. has finished getting ready, and then she’s all but dragging her out of her room. C.C. notices a distinct lack of guards as they creep through the palace to the stables, and she wonders if this outing of Marianne’s isn’t as impromptu as she had initially thought.

The night is warm and comfortable. By now, C.C. is used to the Aries Villa where Marianne resides. The greenery seems to stretch out endlessly, filled with all sorts of flowers that C.C. has never bothered to learn the names of. Even though it’s night, the moon is full and the stars shine brightly, so it’s easy to follow the bob of Marianne’s dark hair as she zigzags in between trees and brush. 

Finally, they arrive at the lake. It’s a common enough destination for them, although C.C. has never been here at night. During the daytime, they’ve often gone with Charles and V.V. It’s relaxing to watch Marianne bask in the sun, her face full of contentment. A couple of times C.C. has witnessed a bird or butterfly land on Marianne’s hand as if she is some sort of storybook princess.

“You didn’t need to ride like that if we were just coming here,” C.C. says as she dismounts from her horse.

Marianne is already sitting on the grass, her legs stretched out. “It was practice for you in case I ever decide to leave Charles, and we run off and elope.”

C.C. snorts and takes a seat beside Marianne. Marianne’s head is tipped toward the sky, and C.C. looks up as well. It’s just an ordinary night sky.

“Is there something we’re supposed to be looking for?” C.C. asks.

Marianne doesn’t answer for a minute. Her violet eyes shine in the moonlight, and her pale skin looks almost ghostly, like she could fade away at any moment.

“I’ve always loved stargazing,” Marianne says, her voice soft and distant. “When I was younger, it was my favorite thing to do. I’m glad I haven’t forgotten it after everything.” She pauses, and C.C. takes her eyes off the sky to see that Marianne is looking straight at her, unblinking.

“I hope,” Marianne says, slow and deliberate, “that my children will never take the stars for granted.”

Her tone isn’t accusatory, but C.C. still feels like she’s being accused of something. Does it matter that she doesn’t appreciate the stars after hundreds of years? 

Will the stars even exist in Charles’ godless world devoid of lies? 

There’s a part of C.C. that wants to ask that very question. Instead, she says, “I’d take pizza over the stars.”

She doesn’t look at Marianne when she says it. C.C. stares at the grass, and then she hears a rustling of clothing. When she finally does look up, Marianne is completely nude.

She’s stretching the way she does right before doing drills in her Ganymede, except C.C. can actually _see_ the muscles flexing in her pale arms and legs. Marianne does a little twirl, kicking her leg out, like she’s a ballet dancer, and then she giggles and beckons C.C.

It’s as if a switch has been flipped. She’s back to her usual childish, frivolous persona. 

“Let’s take a dip, C.C.,” she says, doing another spin. “The night is warm, after all.”

There’s no point in denying Marianne’s whims. C.C. knows she will just whine and make a fuss until C.C. gives in, so she strips out of her horseback riding outfit, tossing the ruffled shirt and bow onto the ground. Marianne is already walking into the lake, and C.C. follows.

The water feels refreshing on her bare skin. This isn’t her first time being nude in a body of water—obviously not with how long she has lived—but it has been a while. C.C. has no qualms about being naked. Her body is just flesh, after all. Flesh that can bring pleasure or pain, but it’s still just flesh that just happens to be chained to immortality. Still, she feels strange tonight, off balance.

Marianne drifts over to where the moonlight shines the strongest on the lake. She stands tall and proud with perfect posture as if she’s under a spotlight in front of adoring subjects. In a way, she resembles a marble statue, her perfect white limbs as still as the water.

Marianne turns and smiles at C.C. once she gets close. C.C. is used to Marianne’s height by now. She’s a tall woman, much taller than C.C., but she seems even more imposing tonight. Perhaps it’s the lake that’s giving this illusion. Marianne is only submerged up to her thighs, whereas the water hits C.C.’s stomach.

C.C. doesn’t say anything when Marianne touches her shoulder. She says nothing as Marianne’s hand trails down, down, until she’s stroking the scar under her left breast. C.C. smirks. This is familiar. She reaches out and lets her fingers trail down Marianne’s torso, pausing to admire the visible abs there, and then she runs her fingers through the hair between her legs, reaching lower, lower—

Marianne stops her, grabbing her hand out from between her thighs. Slowly, deliberately, she laces their fingers together. Her other hand is still gently stroking C.C.’s scar, like she’s trying to memorize it with her fingertips.

This is the time where C.C. would make some sort of quip. The time where she would scoff at Marianne’s antics. But her tongue feels like it’s made of lead. No words come out of her. She has no idea what she looks like, has no idea what expression she is making.

Marianne is still smiling at her, saying nothing. The yellow ribbon in her hair glitters in the moonlight, and C.C. is once again struck with the impulse to pull it out. So she does.

Marianne’s hair tumbles down like it has a mind of its own, falling down her back and in front of her breasts. The ribbon twirls and flutters before plopping into the water. Neither of them reach to pick it up, so it drifts away. This should be the breaking point. This should be the part where Marianne starts laughing or ranting at C.C. for losing her ribbon or finally lets her hand go, but none of those things happen. 

Their hands are still linked, and C.C. still feels the heat of Marianne’s fingers on her scar. C.C. runs her free hand through a tendril of Marianne’s hair, and she smiles, remembering the times it’s gotten in her mouth or wrapped around one of her limbs when they’ve tumbled into bed together. 

She’s about to joke about this when Marianne suddenly removes her hand from C.C.’s scar. She raises her hand near C.C.’s face, and C.C. has this strange thought that she’s about to be struck. But instead, Marianne pushes back her bangs and leans down to kiss her on the forehead, right on the geass sigil.

When Marianne pulls back, her expression is solemn, her smile has vanished, and her grip on C.C.’s hand has tightened. There’s something bubbling up inside C.C., threatening to spill over as she takes in Marianne: her bright violet eyes, her serious mouth that’s usually curled into a smile, her hand that now rests upon C.C.’s cheek.

It’s something that feels like fear, but C.C. knows it isn’t. She knows it isn’t, but it’s easier to pretend that’s what it is. After all, there must be many that fear Marianne the Flash.

Thankfully, Charles’ world does not yet exist. C.C. is allowed her lies.

* * *

Marianne does not need to tell C.C. that she’s pregnant. Her demeanor changes slightly, her smile becomes just a bit wider, her behavior just a smidge more dramatic, but that’s enough for C.C. to know.

“What are you going to name it?” C.C. asks.

“ _His_ name will be Lelouch,” Marianne says, seemingly unsurprised by the question. 

They’re in Marianne’s bed again. C.C. feels somewhat relieved by the familiarity of it. Marianne has not brought up their time at the lake that one night. In a way, C.C. can almost pretend it was a dream, a figment of her imagination, but she keeps remembering the feeling of Marianne’s hand interlaced with hers, her bright serious eyes, and, most of all, her lips on her forehead. C.C. isn’t sure why it’s that part that sticks with her the most.

But it’s easier like this: they’re naked because they fucked and not because of some strange nighttime excursion, and they’re both chatting idly rather than being consumed with silence. 

C.C. props her head up with her elbow and asks, “How do you know it will be a boy?”

“I just know,” Marianne says, and then she peers at C.C., her eyebrows furrowing. “You don’t look happy.”

C.C. dislikes when Marianne points out her moods. She always considered herself a private person, difficult to read, but Marianne sees right through her. 

C.C. turns away from Marianne and looks up at the ceiling. There are no stars here – just a very large ornate chandelier dangling directly over C.C. If it fell, it would probably kill a normal person.

“What do you mean?” C.C. asks, attempting to keep her voice blank.

“You shouldn’t be upset, C.C.,” Marianne says. She starts brushing her fingers through C.C.’s hair, and C.C. continues to stare at the chandelier swaying back and forth. C.C. almost smiles. _Of course_ Marianne doesn’t answer the question.

“Lelouch can keep you company when I grow old and boring,” Marianne whispers, her voice far away, her fingers continuing to comb through C.C.’s hair absently.

The chandelier really does look very heavy with its hundreds of crystals and twinkling lights. The chain it’s suspended from looks fragile and tenuous in comparison. C.C. really stares at it, daring it to break with her gaze. She wonders how Marianne would react if it really did fall on top of C.C. Would she find it amusing? Would she delight in the irony of it? 

“It doesn’t seem like you’re terribly concerned with fulfilling your end of the contract,” C.C. says. She still doesn’t dare to look at Marianne. Not yet.

“C.C.”

“It’s not like I’m surprised,” C.C. continues, attempting to keep her tone airy, light. “You’re not the first person to break it.”

The chandelier is whisked out of C.C.’s view. Marianne has pulled her onto her lap. Her hand is on C.C.’s wrist, forcing her to gaze down at her, forcing her to look into Marianne’s eyes. Her other hand grips C.C. just below her scar, keeping her in place.

“You’ll have your wish, but our plan comes before all else.” Marianne’s voice is both distant and dignified. It’s the same tone she uses when addressing the court, poised and regal. “You know that. We can’t have you dying.”

 _Until it’s convenient._ Marianne doesn’t say it, but C.C. can hear it thrumming in her ears. She hears it as Marianne presses her hand on C.C.’s cheek and kisses her deeply. She hears it as she feels Marianne’s fingers against her spine, gentle, coaxing.

It doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets louder.

* * *

C.C. sees Marianne much less in the following months. Apparently, a Britannian prince is a giant undertaking – even an unborn one. Marianne is no longer able to spend her days honing her piloting skills in her Ganymede. Instead, she is passed from nursery room interior designers to prospective tutors and advisors to fashion designers who are all too eager to consult with Marianne about how Lelouch should dress as soon as he leaves her womb.

C.C. watches from the shadows as Marianne becomes increasingly spherical. Throughout it all, she keeps her poise and dignity, charming everyone she speaks with, a smile almost always on her lips.

The one exception is when C.C. catches her having an argument with an advisor. The advisor claims it would be undignified if Marianne did not have a wet nurse, but Marianne refuses to accept this. C.C., hiding behind a plant, watches with amusement as Marianne begins to threaten the advisor in a way that is both affable and barbaric. The advisor begins to shake like a leaf as Marianne leans over her, her smile transforming from polite annoyance to bestial. 

C.C. smirks and withdraws. No matter what happens, there will always be a part of Marianne that is common-born.

C.C. mainly occupies her time by eating and sleeping and reading books she has no use for, books on etiquette and Britannian history and wartime strategy. Occasionally, she visits V.V., but he always ends up chastising her for not spending more time managing the geass users part of the directorate or aiding Charles in whatever scheme he is currently involved in.

C.C. can only stand so many of V.V.'s childish, nasally lectures, so she spends a large quantity of time alone in her bedroom, waiting for day to fade into night and night to fade into day, losing track of the hours and days. 

She isn’t sure how long it has been since she last spoke to Marianne. Since she last touched Marianne. She looks at the praying woman etched into her stained glass windows every night before falling asleep. She’s glad she does not remember her dreams.

Then, one night she feels a tug on her leg.

C.C. opens her eyes and sits up. There’s a familiar silhouette hovering near her bed, although it’s now a bit wider. The lights flicker on, and Marianne is standing there, heavily pregnant in an orange dress and looking as gleeful as ever. 

“Charles won’t touch me,” Marianne announces abruptly, as if they just spoke yesterday and are continuing a previous conversation.

It takes a moment for C.C. to register Marianne’s words. It takes less time for her to realize that it’s a bald-faced lie. C.C. _knows_ that Charles always yearns to touch Marianne. If anything, her pregnancy makes her more attractive to him. Regardless of Charles’ goal, nothing is more attractive to a great man than the promise of a progeny.

Marianne has to know C.C. knows it’s a lie, so it’s really just a flimsy excuse. C.C. wishes she wouldn’t bother.

When C.C. doesn’t move, Marianne bats her eyelashes and sits on the end of her bed. “You’ll touch me, won’t you, C.C.?”

She pouts in an exaggerated way, making her voice overly saccharine and obnoxious. C.C. raises an eyebrow. This action seems to goad Marianne on further because she raises her legs onto the bed and uses one hand to lift her skirts, exposing just her ankles. She places her other hand delicately over her mouth, like she’s a coquettish woman from the Regency period.

Marianne soon begins to giggle, dropping her arms. “There’s that smile,” she says in between giggles. “I know you’re not made of stone.”

C.C. rolls her eyes, but she crawls over to Marianne nonetheless. Marianne places both of C.C.’s hands on her belly and begins to kiss her. The scent of Marianne’s floral shampoo and body wash is stronger than usual. She must have bathed before sneaking out. A small part of C.C. wonders if this was an act of consideration, but this thought quickly disappears. Her mind just becomes Marianne: the softness of Marianne’s lips, Marianne’s hand slipping under her nightshirt, brushing just below her scar, her fingers softly stroking her temple, so close to the geass sigil on her forehead. 

C.C. moans and deepens the kiss. She doesn’t want to break away. Doesn’t need to break away. Doesn’t need to breathe or eat or sleep. She can keep doing this for an eternity.

But then Marianne pulls away and stands up. At first, C.C. thinks she’s going to rifle through C.C.’s drawers for some sort of toy to use, but, instead, she walks over to C.C.’s bookshelf and pulls out a book. She hands it to C.C.

“Read this to me,” she says.

C.C. looks at the cover. It’s a collection of Greek myths that she has read through a couple times. She looks at Marianne to see that she looks rather calm, no blush high on her cheeks.

C.C. wishes she could see herself. She feels like she’s exposing something. She feels like her desires are easy to read on her eyes and mouth and cheeks no matter what expression she makes.

But there’s nothing that can be done about that, so C.C. raises an eyebrow and makes an expression she hopes looks somewhat unimpressed and asks, “Is a symptom of pregnancy illiteracy?”

Marianne does not respond. She just climbs up into C.C.’s bed and lays down on her side, looking up at C.C. with wide, expectant eyes, as if C.C. has already agreed, as if C.C. would never deny her.

C.C. sighs, opens the book to a random page, and begins to read.

She reads to Marianne the myth of Prometheus: the titan who tricked Zeus, stealing fire from him to give to mankind. As punishment, he was chained to a rock and tortured by an eagle that tore out his liver that always grew back. To punish mankind, Zeus gifted Prometheus’ brother Epimetheus with Pandora, a beautiful mortal with a deceptive heart, who opened a jar that unleashed evils such as sickness and death onto all of humanity.

It’s a tale where the catalyst is deceit, the thing Charles despises the most. It’s interesting to C.C. that the ancient Greeks could not imagine gods who did not lie and trick one another, yet, somehow, Charles believes it’s possible that a world without lies can truly exist.

Marianne claims she is loyal to Charles, loyal to his plan, but C.C. sometimes wonders if she truly believes in it, if she ever lays there at night, questioning her own fanaticism. 

Currently, Marianne does not look like she is questioning anything. Her eyes are closed and her breathing has grown heavier. C.C. closes the book.

“Why did you stop?” Marianne asks, not bothering to open her eyes.

“I’m surprised you enjoy stories like this,” C.C. says. Marianne deserves some payback for not answering C.C.’s questions.

“Of course I do.” Marianne’s voice is sluggish, like she’s on the verge of falling asleep, but she persists. “They’re relatable. Also, Ganymede is from Greek mythology.”

C.C. stands up to place the book back on the shelf and turns off the light. She crawls back into bed, pulling the sheet over herself and Marianne. Their faces are inches apart, the child inside Marianne serving as a sort of barrier. C.C. watches as Marianne’s chest rises and falls, her hand resting on her belly.

C.C. thinks she has fallen asleep until Marianne murmurs, “I miss it.”

“What?”

“Piloting the Ganymede.”

C.C. smiles. “You act like you’ll never pilot it again.”

At that, Marianne opens her eyes, and she gazes at C.C., expression soft. There’s something so gentle and dream-like about her face. “No, I will,” Marianne says. “Once Lelouch is born.”

C.C. almost jokes that Marianne seems more excited about the ability to pilot her knightmare again than the arrival of her newborn son, but she holds her tongue. She wants to hold onto this moment a little longer, stretch it as long as she can.

“It’s fitting, you know,” Marianne says, her eyelids drooping.

“What is?”

“Me being the pilot of the Ganymede. Our stories are similar.”

C.C. raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

“A beautiful young mortal is abducted by the most powerful god and brought to Olympus.” Marianne smiles. “A beautiful young commoner is abducted by the most powerful emperor and brought to the Pendragon palace.”

“I think you’re stretching the definition of abduction in your case.”

Marianne cocks her head to the side. “Am I?”

“There’s also the lack of homosexual desire.”

Marianne releases a sudden quiet laugh, and then she places her hand on C.C.’s cheek, her thumb tracing her jaw and neck. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

Before C.C. can respond, Marianne’s hand travels upward, pushing back her bangs. She leans forward and kisses the geass sigil on her forehead. It’s the same as the first time, but that unnamable feeling inside C.C. is even stronger than before. A part of her fears that the sigil will start glowing red in the dark, lighting up the room, lighting up Marianne’s knowing eyes.

It doesn’t of course. Marianne pulls back and removes her hand from C.C.’s face and places it back on her belly. 

“Thank you for reading to me, C.C.,” she says, voice completely sincere, and then she closes her eyes.

In a few minutes, Marianne will fall asleep. In the morning, she will disappear, and C.C. might not speak to her again for days or weeks or months. She might not speak to her again until after Lelouch is born. C.C. briefly considers reaching out and touching Marianne, skin to skin, activating her power. Maybe she can make her understand that way, feeding her the images and emotions that reside within C.C.

But C.C. knows she doesn’t have enough control over that. It’s pointless. C.C. needs to speak. Use her words. Ask a question.

_Do you love me?_

C.C. envisions four different ways Marianne could answer:

She says “yes” but doesn’t mean it. It would be as good as rejection. Marianne would giggle and say yes, yes, of course, C.C., but her words would be empty. She would mean “love” in the same way that she loves fighting in her Ganymede or horseback riding or stargazing. C.C. is just another pastime.

Or she could say “yes” but mean it. But does it matter if she means it? Would loving C.C. change anything? Would it change their fate? Her fate? Are these just words that C.C. wants to hear before her wish is fulfilled and Charles’ great plan is carried out?

Or Marianne says “no,” and it’s blunt and to the point. That might be the easiest. Maybe that’s just what C.C. needs to hear.

And, finally, there’s the worst option, the one that C.C. fears the most. Marianne says “no,” and she says it with pity. For the first time, Marianne will look at C.C. not with fondness or exasperation or humor but pity. There will be sorrow in her eyes, her lips pulled into a frown, and she will pity C.C.—not for her immortality or various lives or the people she has lost, but for her _stupidity_.

The feeling inside C.C. is unbearable now. C.C. has been declared a witch and burned at the stake. She has been beheaded. Like Prometheus, she has had organs plucked out of her and watched as they grew back.

Somehow none of that even compares.

C.C. just has to ask. She watches as Marianne’s breathing deepens, her hands still on her belly. Just four words.

The feeling inside C.C. is clawing at her insides, seeping through her skin. The sigil on her forehead feels like it’s searing. C.C. opens her mouth to gasp or to speak, but nothing comes out.

Marianne rustles in her sleep, and C.C. reaches out and touches one of her hands. She doesn’t awaken. She doesn’t even awaken when C.C. laces their fingers together. Or when C.C. places their hands below her breast, right where her scar is.

The warmth of Marianne’s hand doesn’t fix anything. Doesn’t alleviate anything. C.C. closes her eyes anyway.

She tries not to think about the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a pre-series canon compliant Marianne/C.C. fic from C.C.'s perspective, and this happened. Hopefully, I end up writing a happier fic with these two at some point lol.


End file.
